


Lost and Fauned

by airebellah



Series: Lost and Fauned [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Bilbo Baggins, Eventual Fluff, Faun!Bilbo, Fauns & Satyrs, Grief/Mourning, Khuzdul, King Thorin, Language Barrier, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Bilbo, Overprotective Thorin, Pining, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Protective Thorin, Slow Burn, Thorin Broods, Thorin Feels, Thorin Has Issues, Thorin is a Softie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-08 14:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6859507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All hobbits bore a deep secret. They had hidden their true forms for so long, any record of it had been erased from the histories of men and any other races who may have once known. So when Bilbo woke up on Ravenhill after the battle with furry legs and horns atop his head, he realized something was terribly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based on [this post](http://thistle-dear-friend.tumblr.com/post/140230903852/rutobuka2-i-didnt-have-the-time-to-write-the-fic) by thistle-dear-friend. I highly suggest you check it out because they made some awesome artwork to go along with the prompt :)
> 
> Eternal thanks for tea-blitz for showing me this amazing post and listening to me rant (and ranting back) about ideas and plot. Pun titles are the best, if you don't think so, you need to re-examine your values.
> 
> Unsure how many chapters this will be, looks like around 10-12, but who knows!

A sharp pounding in his head was the first thing of which Bilbo was aware. It was as if a pickaxe was being driven into his skull with the beat of his heart. He groaned, the sound vibrating up his tight throat. His eyes struggled to open, lids heavy and glued shut.

When he finally pried his eyes open, it was to a blurry world of swirling greys and blacks. Everything spun in circles as he tried to sit up, his pounding head protesting the movement.

Through the colourless, shadowy fog Bilbo could see the unmoving bodies of orcs strewn around the rocky clearing. Memories of the battle forced themselves upon Bilbo, causing the hobbit to groan miserably.

He waited a few moments for the waves of nausea to pass, slowly coming to terms with what had happened. He remembered climbing up to Ravenhill to warn Thorin of the impending attack. After that things became unclear - goblins had swarmed, but they had fought them off. Then came the orcs… Bilbo had slipped on his ring, intimidated by the towering size and sheer number of the oncoming creatures. He had hidden, pelting rocks at his enemies’ heads, years of wasting time with conkers surprisingly coming in handy. But one of the orcs had taken him by surprise, knocking him out cold.

_Have I missed the entire thing?_ Bilbo wondered, looking around in a sudden panic. His eyes landed on Sting a few feet away, and Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed the steel matched the same toneless grey of its surroundings - all the orcs nearby must be dead.

He ripped the ring off his finger, scrambling forward to grab his sword. But he started at what sounded like metal scraping on stone. He looked around, but could see nothing. Ignoring the itching desire to put the ring back on, he curled his hand around Sting’s hilt. He pulled himself to his feet, stumbling from oncoming syncope. Bracing his hands on his legs, he leaned forward, slowly breathing through the dizzy spell. And when he opened his eyes, he shrieked.

Those were not the legs with which he remembered setting out from the Shire. No, they were covered in dense golden-brown fur, thick haunches tapering off into slim forelegs and black cloven hooves.

“Oh, Eru!” he exclaimed, staring at the appendages in horror. “No, no, this can’t be happening.”

He lifted his shirt - his trousers must have been ripped off during the, ah, _transformation_ \- hands running over his stomach frantically. The fur trailed up from his hips, tapering off at his belly button.

“What in the _hell?”_

 

Now, the legs were not anything Bilbo had not seen before - he was quite familiar with his own anatomy, thank you very much. But from a young age, hobbits were taught a transformational spell which concealed their unique forms.

It was a means of protection. The fact that no one knew where hobbits came from was not mere happenstance. Many years ago, they had lived in the east, enjoying their simple, peaceful lives. But when menfolk had discovered the hobbits, apparently exotic with their furred legs, curved horns, and other strange traits, the men had taken to hunting them for sport. A halfling, as they were called by the men, was touted to be a grand hunting trophy.

The hobbits had fled to the west, settling in the rolling hills of the Shire. There they had isolated themselves from the outside world. Until one day a man appeared - or so they had thought. The man-like creature had come bearing gifts, fresh fruits and vegetables for the exhausted, starving peoples. The hobbits had been understandably wary, but the man offered only peace.

He was one of the Maiar, he claimed, sent by Eru Illúvatar himself to protect the nearby forest. He gave the hobbits his blessing to settle in the fertile land, even providing them with seeds to sow.

Long had the hobbits waited for the other foot to drop. But no one else ever appeared save for jolly ol’ Tom Bombadil, who soon became a welcome face in the small but rapidly building country. When the hobbits finally revealed their struggles, the Maiar went so far as to offer them his services - he knew a spell, a simple incantation along with a selection of herbs that would create a transformational illusionment.

Of course, their natural form was more comfortable, so hobbits tended to reverse the spell the moment they were indoors. But whenever they were outside, every hobbit took up the false form. While few outsiders ever wandered into their land, everyone knew the risks. So when Bilbo had left the Shire, he had made sure to keep the incantation on at all times. It was no hardship; the spell did not wear off, nor did it need to be re-cast. It could not come undone accidentally; the wearer needed to purposefully undo its effects.

Or so Bilbo had thought.

As he looked down at his furry legs, he realized he was terribly, terribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, terribly short, but there will be a new chapter next Sunday! :_)  
> If you like this, check out my other works. I'm also on tumblr under the same name.


	2. Chapter Two

Ironically enough, being forced into his natural form made climbing down Ravenhill blessedly easy. He had stumbled around at first, having grown unused to these legs. But once he taught himself how to balance once again, it was remarkably easy. Easier, in fact, than those blasted, large feet. No toes sliding all over the place or knees precariously locking and wobbling. His hooves found holdings within the rocky terrain with ease, allowing the hobbit to hop down with growing confidence.

Reaching the bottom, he gazed around the desolate field. It was strewn with bodies: man, dwarf, elf, and orc alike. His ears pricked but he could not hear anything, not even the faint sounds of fighting or victory.

_ Who has won this battle _ ? he wondered, carefully walking through the bloodied field. His fingers returned to the ring in his pocket constantly, rubbing the cool metal anxiously. But the ring would only serve to obscure his vision, making his task harder.

He did not pass by a living soul until he approached Dale. It was then that he donned his magic trinket, keeping his hooven steps carefully light as he entered. The city was a chaotic mess, people trying to rebuild what little remained as the few healers tended to the many, many sick and wounded. Bilbo was surprised to find elves amongst the remaining men; either Thranduil’s forces had yet to depart, or the elven king had allowed some to stay behind and offer aid.

Bilbo spent a long time in the city, gathering information and searching for anyone he could trust. But as he thought back to the terrifying moment on the rampart - when Thorin had grabbed him by the throat and seemed ready to throw him to the ground below - Bilbo realized that number may now only be one. It was not that he feared the rest of the Company necessarily, but he knew all too well they were loyal to a fault. It would be impossible to know if Thorin had standing orders to report Bilbo’s whereabouts to him immediately, should the hobbit be found.

And if Thorin did find him - well, Bilbo gulped and resolved not to think of such a thing right now.

His time in Dale served no ultimate purpose, save for filling his belly with what food he could pilfer. He gathered little information, only that the orcs had been defeated and what remained of the dwarvish army had returned to the mountain. Nothing was said of Thorin - not that Bilbo was anxious to hear news of the dwarf king, especially with his own problems.

Worst of all, Bilbo heard and saw nothing of Gandalf. Gandalf had been his only hope - if anyone should know how to help with his dilemma, surely it would be the wizard.

Unsure of what else to do, Bilbo ran into the forest near Dale, hoping against hope that Gandalf would somehow manage to find him. After all, Gandalf had always appeared right when Bilbo needed him in the past.

Settling in the forest was not as hard as Bilbo had imagined. It seemed no creatures had dared live so close to the dragon-infested mountain, thus Bilbo did not have to worry about any predators or fending for territory. At least his time on the Quest had prepared him for a life with the barest necessities - now he had no necessities whatsoever, but it was less of a shock.

Hobbits knew well what plants and berries could be eaten and which to avoid, knowledge which Bilbo put to use. There was not much here in the way of foliage, but luckily it was enough for a single hobbit, in addition to what he could sneak from the village of men. He could not go to Dale forever - for now, in this mess of post-battle recovery, it was easy to sneak around. But once things settled, no doubt Bilbo would have to find other means. He hoped it would not come to that, however.

Surely Gandalf knew that Bilbo was missing, and if he had searched the battlefield, he would know that Bilbo was not among the dead. Granted, running off into the nearby forest was not the next obvious step, but it had to count for something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates on Sunday, find me on tumblr under the same name!


	3. Chapter Three

The days blended together as Bilbo paced the deadly silent forest, periodically checking in on Dale. He had stolen (well, _borrowed,_ really - he would repay it when he could!) a few blankets, rolls of bread, fruits and vegetables, and a waterskin, which he replenished in a pond hidden within the forest’s depths. He had a rather nice thing going, in all honesty. If he ignored his nagging fears, he could almost pretend he was merely on a walking holiday.

His fears proved to be not only nagging, but relentless as well. Every faunt grew up on tales of the terrifying, dangerous world beyond the borders of the Shire. Now, Bilbo’s mother, Belladonna, only rolled her eyes at such stories. She said the rest of Arda was beautiful if one only chose to appreciate it. Belladonna Took was perhaps the only hobbit who fully supported her son’s thirst for exploring, but even she had her limits. Her gentle encouragements came with a heavy dose of warning: never, _ever_ reveal yourself to an outsider. On this, Bilbo’s mother agreed with the rest of the Shire. It was more than mere fear-mongering; it was a true danger.

Were it not for his mother’s grave insistence, Bilbo might have wrapped a blanket around his legs and a scarf over his head and braved the city of men, asking after Gandalf’s whereabouts and hiding until the wizard could be found. But as it were, he could not bring himself to leave the dense cover of trees without slipping on his ring.

The more often Bilbo donned the ring, the more exhausted he found himself becoming. He could not say how, but it was as if the trinket was draining his energy. And every time he pulled himself from the gloomy grey and black, his relief was mingled with the desperate urge to slip it back on immediately.

 

Bilbo walked among the trees, mentally mapping out the unfamiliar territory in an effort to give himself something to do. He grew anxious the closer he came to the mountain, but in truth, there was not much to fear: if any being was to enter a forest, certainly it would not be a dwarf. So every once in awhile he would trot to the edge of the woods, hiding behind a trunk as he looked upon the Lonely Mountain. The solitary peak was devastatingly beautiful in a way Bilbo never thought a pile of rock could be. With an ache in his chest, he thought of the vast halls on the inside, the beautifully carved stone, and the streaming jewels decorating the walls.

He would never see the magnificence of a fully restored Erebor, and that realization hit him harder than he had expected. Bilbo sank down onto his furry haunches, hysterics threatening to bubble up in his throat. The thought of never making it back to the Shire was scary, but the thought of never seeing Erebor, or his friends, again was the most painful thing Bilbo could imagine. The loss was like a physical wound in his chest, threatening to collapse his lungs and throttle his heart.

Lost in his grief as he was, Bilbo failed to see an approaching figure. He pushed himself off the ground, wiping the dirt from his furred behind and rubbing his teary eyes.

 _What a bother,_  Bilbo thought, laughing dryly. Or so he tried - the sound was garbled in his altered vocal chords.

He made his way back to his temporary campsite, lost in his thoughts when he heard a twig snap behind him. Bilbo instinctively dove to the nearest tree before he even knew what he was doing, heart pounding in his chest. His long ears perked as he strained to hear over the sound of his own labored breaths.

The thudding steps continued to approach. From what he could ascertain, it was a single person, on two feet. Bilbo licked his lips, taking a deep breath as his panicked mind began analyzing his options.

He could bolt, run for camp. Risk exposing himself and his shelter. Or he could stay here and hope for the threat to pass.

As the footsteps continued to come closer, Bilbo found himself frozen in fear. It was the first time he had encountered another while in this form and he was wholly unprepared. Usually he was quick on his feet, but now he was too terrified to even breathe.

Closer and closer the thudding steps came, and Bilbo’s eyes widened as he fisted the ring hanging from his neck. Of course! He could simply slip on his trinket, though he would still have to calm his gasping breaths lest he give himself away.

Ring hovering above his finger, Bilbo tilted his head ever so slightly as he listened. The person was close now, mere feet from his hiding place. But right before he pulled the metal over his finger, they continued on, thudding past his tree without pause.

Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief, quickly standing. Now was the time to get away - he would not run, just slowly and silently slip away. But as he braced to make his first step, he looked over his shoulder, just to make sure the unwanted guest was not looking his way.

His entire body froze, jaw dropping in shock. He must have made a noise of surprise for the person - the _dwarf_ , rather - turned towards him, long wavy hair flinging over his shoulder.

Thorin looked worse than Bilbo had ever seen him, and after everything they had been through, that was truly saying something. It was not the jagged healing wound dissecting his face which marred Thorin’s majestic beauty. It was his pale skin, sunken cheeks, and dull, haunted eyes. Bilbo stared in startled horror, unable to move or say anything.

The King had withdrawn his weapon on instinct, and not for the first time, Bilbo was facing down the pointed end of Orcrist. But the dwarf stumbled back, eyes widening as his sword dropped to the ground.

“Bi-Bilbo?” he stuttered, expression twisting in shock and confusion.

The noise seemed to break Bilbo’s terrified reverie. He turned and ran, springing from one leg to the next. He was much quicker in this form, and for all that dwarves were accomplished sprinters, he doubted Thorin could have followed. Yet there came no noise from behind, no crashing through foliage, no yells or cries. Still Bilbo ran, ran until his legs stumbled beneath him, falling onto his hands and curling into a tight, terrified ball.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also posted my Hobbit Big Bang entry this weekend - The Fine Print, a post-BOTFA AU in which Bilbo travels to Erebor for the first time, years after the quest. If you haven't already, [check it out here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7077574/chapters/16087099) :)

Bilbo had given up. Surely a search parting  _ (hunting party, _ more like it) would be sent soon, he reasoned, now that Thorin knew about him. Dwarves would set upon the forest, armed to avenge their betrayed king. He had nowhere to go - he had no idea what lay in this part of Arda, save for from where the Company had come. And those were hardly options - Laketown was burned to ash, and Mirkwood was heavily guarded, by not only elf and beguiling illusionment, but ginormous,  _ terrifying _ spiders.

Bilbo stayed at the far edge of the forest, close to Long Lake and as far as possible from the mountain. His ring was at the ready, Sting at his side. All signs of his presence had been destroyed, and he barely slept. Perhaps it was foolish, but he did not wish to leave until absolutely necessary - he doubted the dwarves would give chase to an invisible target, and Bilbo wished to avoid wearing the ring as long as possible.

But as the days passed, it seemed no one would be coming for him after all. Though he refused to go near the mountain, Bilbo tentatively settled back into a routine in the forest.

But the peace he felt at long last did not stay for long. With his mind so focused on the mountain, there was a threat which Bilbo did not account for: the men of Dale grew hungry, unfulfilled by Mirkwood’s meatless supplies. Hunters were sent out to explore the land and bring back whatever they could find. And it just so happened that one of the men began exploring Bilbo’s forest.

 

The hobbit was crouched before a pond, clothes shucked aside as he washed himself. He wetted a cloth and rubbed it over his skin, refusing to submerge his entire body - his fur would take hours to dry on such a cloudy day, and he did not have that kind of patience. He hummed a low tune to himself, luxuriating in the cleansing. It was one benefit of no longer travelling with a bunch of dwarves: he could bathe as regularly as he pleased.

Hobbit hearing was excellent, but even Bilbo could not compete with a skilled hunter hungry to feast. A prickling of hair on the back of his neck was the only warning before a shaft whizzed through the air. Bilbo twisted around, hissing as his arm began to ache. Before him stood a man, quickly notching another arrow after his failed attempt.

Bilbo took off immediately, hooves sliding in the water-softened ground. The man gave chase, pounding footsteps dogging his every move. Bilbo cursed his instincts as much as he was thankful for them: in his desperation to escape, he had left Sting sitting uselessly by the bank. But a sword would hardly protect him from an arrow in the back, and Bilbo kept on running, huffing short breaths as the trees blurred around him. His legs pumped furiously, cloven hooves digging into the ground with each step, only to spring him forwards. He weaved in and out of the trees, making an impossible target to hit.

He ran blindly, only aware of the all-consuming need to  _ escape, _ numbed to any sense of direction or purpose. Adrenaline pounded in his veins, sending his furiously beating heart into overdrive with every stomping step behind him.

By the time Bilbo realized he had stumbled into a clearing, it was too late. It was not some glade inside the forest’s depths; it was the end altogether, an empty plain leading to the steps of Erebor.

Bilbo froze at the sight, instinct to get away from his attacker warring with his fear of the mountain. But the hunter made the choice for him. The man was surely skilled, for in Bilbo’s minute hesitation, he withdrew an arrow and fired. Bilbo yelled as the arrow embedded itself in the back of his leg, buckling from the pain. Had it been any other situation, Bilbo would have been horrified to hear he all but bleated like some  _ farm animal. _

He fell to the ground, palms scraping and hooves sliding to make purchase. His gaze was drawn to his back leg, throat tightening in horror as he saw the fresh blood soaking his tawny fur.

Wide horrified eyes looked up at the man, silently pleading in his last moments. The man stared back, strangely nonplussed, as though he were truly seeing Bilbo for the first time.

“Please,” he gasped, the sound coming out like a garbled whine. His eyelids were growing heavy, his vision blurring and head swimming. With every beat of his heart the blood poured from his leg, leaving him light-headed and weaken.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Bilbo struggled to look up at the snarled words; it took all his strength just to stay conscious. Shock kept his heart pumping furiously even as blood loss lulled him to unconsciousness.

As Bilbo lifted his head, his eyes narrowed in an effort to focus. There was someone else - arms waving furiously, snarling and yelling at the huntsman. The newcomer was short, with long dark hair. The sight made Bilbo’s heart freeze in his chest, a renewed sense of panic without the coherency to understand it.

Neck unable to support his weight any longer, Bilbo’s head knocked back into the earth, horns digging into the hard soil. He was aware of nothing but the ache in his leg; the limb was on fire, blood screaming as it coursed through his veins. He wanted nothing more than to let go, to forget the pain and succumb to blessed sleep. Yet instinct kept him going, his blurred mind struggling to focus on anything.

The next thing of which he was aware was being lifted from the ground. There was a bulky warmth along his side and Bilbo buried his face in the softness, inhaling a strangely familiar scent, memories of another life.

“You’re all right, akhûnith,” a voice murmured. “I’ve got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> akhûnith - little one


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone leaving comments, your words mean so much to me! Hope you guys enjoy :)

The first thing Bilbo did upon waking was let out a long, ragged groan. His right leg felt as though it were on fire, jolts of burning pain thrumming with the beat of his heart. There was an aching in his arm, but it was only a vague throb compared to the pain in his leg.

‘You’re all right,” came a voice. Bilbo’s mouth struggled to form words, barely managing to let out a dry croak. His eyes felt glued shut, impossible to pry open.

“Drink this.”

A warm mug was pressed into his hand, steaming warmth curling into his nostrils. Bilbo brought the drink to his lips and immediately gulped it down. The liquid burned his tongue and throat, but he could not find it in himself to care. His stomach was empty and cold, and he revelled in the warmth filling his insides.

“Slow down,” the person said, rough fingers brushing against the back of Bilbo's hand in warning. Bilbo ignored it, only stopping when the mug emptied.

He relaxed back into what felt like a bed, head lolling to the side. His mind felt fuzzy, like a fog surrounded his brain. Smacking his lips, his brow furrowed as he struggled to open his eyes.

“It's for the pain.” The voice was farther away now, though Bilbo could not remember the person leaving his side.

Bilbo's tongue was heavy in his mouth as he tried to mumble,  _ It doesn't seem to be working.  _ But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he realized he was wrong. It was almost as though he had had one too many pints at  _ The Green Dragon, _ his head woozy and light. His thoughts unraveled into an incoherent mess as he struggled to stay awake. But as his consciousness faded, so did the pain - it dulled to a tolerable ache, the fiery pain extinguished at last.

For one blurry moment, before falling into unconsciousness, Bilbo managed to open his eyes. And looming above him was a painfully familiar dwarf with long dark hair, a cropped beard, and piercing blue eyes.

 

Bilbo awoke often, though rarely for long. He would take a few sips of tea, barely aware of his surroundings, then slip back to sleep. Thorin was always there, though Bilbo did not often realize it. And when he did, he was back to sleep before the comprehension could sink in.

It was days before Bilbo was coherent and could stay awake for longer than a few minutes. As he came to, he looked around the unfamiliar room. The bed he lay on was huge and impossibly plush, covered in soft sheets and thick furs. The room was large but surprisingly empty, with a couch, a few dressers and desks, and nothing more. The walls and floor were all stone, a detail which prodded at the back of Bilbo's foggy memory.

Sitting up, his expression contorted in pain at the deep ache in his leg. Ripping back the sheets, his eyes widened in shock at the bandage wrapped around his furry thigh. His fingers brushed against the fabric, as if he half-believed it would melt away under his touch. Instead he felt a twinge of pain as he skirted over a particular area.

Shot. He had been shot. Bilbo remembered running through the forest, hunted by a man. What he could not recall was how he had ended up here - or where  _ here  _ was.

He was not left wondering for long, however. The door to the room slammed open, revealing Bilbo's savior - or perhaps his captor, the hobbit thought as the blood drained from his face. He scrambled to get out of the bed, crying out in pain at he forced his healing leg into action.

Thorin surged forward, though he froze with his hands in the air at Bilbo's startled yelp.

“It's all right,” he iterated with exaggerated slowness. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to retort, to  _ beg _ Thorin to release him, but both hobbit and dwarf were left frowning in confusion at the unintelligible garble his throat produced.

“You probably cannot understand me,” Thorin continued, voice unnervingly gentle and calm. “But I intend to help you, little creature.”

Bilbo frowned, glancing at Thorin unsurely. Did he not...realize who Bilbo was?

The hobbit’s hand reached up, fingers brushing against one of his horns. It was true, his appearance was rather changed. Perhaps he was unrecognizable - or at least enough to give Thorin reasonable doubt. After all, it was unrealistic for the dwarf to suspect Bilbo had suddenly learned how to shift forms.

“If you allow me, I will check your wounds.”

Thorin stared at him, as if actually awaiting an answer. After a moment's hesitation, Bilbo nodded in assent.

“Perhaps you understand after all,” Thorin said, lip curving slightly. But the ghost of amusement quickly fell, replaced with quiet concentration as he sat on the edge of the bed. He motioned Bilbo closer, making no move to approach himself.

The hobbit gingerly shifted closer, eyeing Thorin warily the entire time. The dwarf stayed perfectly still and silent, expression neutral. He first unfurled the bandage around Bilbo's arm, a wound which the hobbit had rather forgotten about.

“This one is a mere graze,” Thorin explained as he examined the wound. 

Bilbo snorted. Nothing about it felt  _ mere.  _ As he looked up, he noticed Thorin staring at him with a small smile.

“You are an intelligent being,” Thorin commented, moving to the larger bandage on the hobbit's thigh. Bilbo hissed lightly, flinching away. “Peace,” Thorin murmured, giving Bilbo a moment to adjust before untying the knot.

“I have not seen your kind before,” he continued. “Nor could I find any record in my people’s long history. But you need not fear me - I have allowed none but my most trusted healer to see you; whatever secret you may keep, it is safe with me.”

He spoke with gentle slowness as he unfurled the bandage. Bilbo gulped as the wound was finally exposed, looking away before seeing anything. Thorin fell silent as he carefully examined the wound. Bilbo made a small noise as Thorin abruptly left, but the dwarf soon returned with a fresh bandage.

“There is no sign of infection,” he murmured, rebandaging Bilbo’s leg in silence. When he finished, he did not move right away. Instead he stayed by Bilbo’s side, thick brows pulled together in contemplation.

“If you can indeed understand me,” he started slowly, as though fighting his own words, “I must confess something.” Bilbo’s head shot up, his wide, startled eyes getting caught in the intense heat of Thorin's gaze.

“I fear I have kept you in here for greed, not benevolence.” Thorin's heavy brows pulled together, lips pulling together tightly as he looked away.

“You have a startling resemblance to an...old friend of mine,” he admitted after a long moment of silence, as though it were a dark confession pulled from his heart. “I betrayed his trust and his loyalty and nearly -”

Thorin sprang up from the bed, beginning an agitated pace around the room. “I fear his death is on my hands, and mine alone.”

Bilbo was shocked into silence. Did the Company think him dead?

“I have no yearning for material possession. No jewels, no gold, not even the Arkenstone lays claim over my heart,” he continued, adding bitterly, “Not anymore.

“Yet I fear there is a greed haunting me still. That when it comes time for me to release you, I will refuse to do so.”

He stopped his maddening pacing, turning to Bilbo with bright, shining eyes. “To look upon your face is the sweetest torture,” he murmured.

Thorin blinked, looking taken aback at his own tirade. He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing frustratedly. “Yet you are not him,” he whispered, before stalking out of the room.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have my first uni final tomorrow, everyone reading this wish me luck please!

Bilbo was gradually eased off his pain-reducing tonics as he healed. When they had been at their strongest, they kept him in a constant state of disorientation. As the first week neared an end, Bilbo had had only vague snippets of conversation with Thorin. Well, not truly conversation, for try as Bilbo might to speak, it was entirely one-sided. And given how reticent Thorin was, they were basically _no-_ sided. Bilbo mostly recalled the king sitting next to his bed with paperwork, the only sound filling the silence being the quill scratching against parchment.

By the second, week, Bilbo was able to stay awake, and clear-headed, for much longer periods of time. Bilbo was surprised at his own distress when he awoke to no one there; Thorin’s presence had become a constant reassurance in his disoriented state.

A reassurance... it was admittedly odd, thinking once more of Thorin as being reassuring as opposed to, well, a _deadly_ threat. But Bilbo had seen a new side of Thorin in recent days; he had never imagined the king would take in an injured animal and treat the creature himself. Not that Bilbo was an _animal,_ Heavens above! But Thorin, pig-headed and foolish as he was, seemed not to realize that.

As time went on, any fear that Bilbo had that Thorin would banish him, or even execute him, was put to rest. This was not the same dwarf who had grabbed Bilbo and thrust him over the ramparts. It seemed the dragon-sickness had left the dwarf completely.

“The humans have received what gold Erebor had been storing for the men of Dale, with additional gold to help repair their city,” Thorin muttered under his breath as he read over an agreement. He sat at his now-customary chair by Bilbo’s side as the hobbit happily munched away at a plate of assorted breads and root vegetables - he could hardly expect anything _green,_ after all.

“And we have given the poncy elf his precious white gems and other elvish relics the records show we held.”

When Bilbo began choking on a chunk of potato, Thorin looked up in surprise.

“Are you well, akhûnith?” he asked, hand reaching out, only to hover above Bilbo’s shoulder. The dwarf had yet to touch him, save when necessary.

Bilbo quickly swallowed, shrugging off the king’s concern. But as Thorin returned to his work, Bilbo’s mind reeled in shock. The dwarf spoke of giving away gold as if it were nothing! He had only sounded bitter when mentioning Thranduil specifically, and that was _hardly_ surprising.

Bilbo surreptitiously stared at the dwarf; in spite of how much time they had spent together recently, Bilbo had failed to truly _see_ Thorin. He never wore the raven crown, nor his grandfather’s richly adorned clothes. The outfits he wore were formal and of high quality, but in no way ostentatious like the rich, black clothes he had worn after first arriving in Erebor.

Thorin squinted at the parchment, brows furrowed, and lips moving slightly as he read silently to himself. His eyes were not narrowed in anger, nor shifting constantly in suspicion. Gone was the frenzied panic, replaced with a calm, if distant, coolness. Whenever he looked upon Bilbo, it was with an almost uncomfortable tenderness, to the point where Bilbo struggled to meet the dwarf’s gaze.

Most importantly of all, he had spoken of Bilbo, and what had passed between them, with the deepest of regrets. Certainly one still under the influence of dragon sickness would not feel such remorse.

But even with all these things in mind, Bilbo struggled with the question of whether or not to tell Thorin that he was … himself. There was a sense of security in knowing Thorin did not realize it was him - he could be close to the King without the King’s knowledge.

Besides, there was more to the situation than Bilbo’s own feelings. Exposing his true identity meant exposing his entire people. It was a risk he was not sure he could take, even with his implicit trust in Thorin’s discretion.

In the end, Bilbo resolved to wait until he was healed. If he did not wish to part from Thorin, or at least not before making amends, he need only leave the mountain, re-cast his spell, and return in his more familiar form. Thorin would be none the wiser, and the hobbits’ secret would remain safe.

 

Bilbo’s plan had sounded perfectly rational and well thought out in his mind. But he had failed to account for Thorin’s stubbornness.   It seemed so ingrained in the dwarf; Thorin had a preternatural sense of when the perfectly dwarvish trait would aid him greatly.

Thorin Oakenshield was suffering. Originally consumed by the pain of his injuries, then fear of Thorin’s dragon sickness, then _relief_ about Thorin clearly being of sound mind once more, Bilbo had not seen it at first.

He was already assured this was not the dwarf who had grabbed him and dangled him over the ramparts. But neither was it the brave, if reckless, dwarf who led twelve dwarves and a hobbit on a hopeless quest.

Through the mere glances he got into Thorin's regal life, it was clear the dwarf was every bit the just and passionate ruler Bilbo had always known him capable of being. He left before dawn every morning after placing a tray of food and drinks by Bilbo's bedside. He would rush to his private chambers when he got the chance, usually not until mid-afternoon, and replenish the hobbit’s stores of food. If he had time, he would sit and share a meal, filling the silence with details of his day so far. But before long he was pulled back to work, not returning until late in the evening.

Bilbo knew dwarves were a strong folk built to endure, but even he could see that in Thorin’s stubbornness, the King was running himself ragged. His bloodshot eyes were rimmed with dark bruises, and his olive skin had lost its pleasant flush.

There was a sofa in the room intended for Thorin to sleep on, as his bed was currently occupied. Yet more often than not he fell asleep in the chair permanently placed by Bilbo’s bedside, a mess of papers on his lap. That was if he slept at all - other times Bilbo awoke in the middle of the night only to find Thorin still writing away.

The hobbit had no idea ruling a kingdom included so much bloody _paperwork._

Bilbo often tried to convince the dwarf to eat and sleep more; while communicating through grunts and gestures was rather difficult to the hobbit, it should have been nothing new to the dwarf. Bilbo was quite sure Thorin knew _exactly_ what he was saying, but chose to ignore it.

It would have been easier if Bilbo were able to speak, but he had yet to master language with his rearranged vocal cords. It was no hardship when one went back and forth between forms often, but after spending almost an entire _year_ in one form, it was unnatural to speak in this one. Had he truly focfused on re-learning Westron, he likely could have been able to speak by now. But a part of him put it off on purpose - he feared that, should he be able to communicate once more, nothing would stop him from confessing the truth to Thorin immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These were originally two separate chapters, but the first was not even 800 words so I decided to put them together. This is all I have for this story -- hopefully I can write more by next Sunday!!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who follows or visits me on tumblr would have seen I was unable to update this last week, and instead posted a cute/funny mod!au bagginshield one-shot called [An Emergency(room) Date](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7310359) (check it out if you haven't already!)
> 
> Make sure to thank [tea-blitz](tea-blitz.tumblr.com) for all her help with this chapter - brainstorming plot and beta-ing. This wouldn't even be here without her, you guys!
> 
> I just picked up TWO part-time jobs, but hopefully I'll be able to write chapter 8 within the week and get it posted for you guys. If not, I'll probably post another one-shot i I have any completed (I try to always post something on Sundays, even if it's no my current WIP).

Bilbo had never been a typical hobbit; while his people were known primarily for their simple lifestyles, Bilbo was not satisfied with merely lazing about. Sure, he enjoyed a quiet sit on a bench with a pipe full of Old Toby, but he could only stand the idleness for a short period of time. He always had to be occupied, physically or mentally - either reading, writing, cooking, or gardening.

So as the days became weeks and Bilbo was  _ still  _ confined to Thorin’s bed (the thought of it belonging to Thorin, of the dwarf having slept in here prior to Bilbo’s arrival, reduced the hobbit into a flustered mess), he was slowly going stir-crazy.

If Thorin left paperwork or books on the bed, Bilbo would try to occupy the silent hours reading them. He couldn’t, of course; the damned things were always in Khuzdul, but he enjoyed the beautiful runes nevertheless. And he memorized Thorin’s signature, which sent his stomach into a tiny fit of knots.

He spent little time on vocalizations. When he had finally mastered a Westron greeting, he had been almost jumping with excitement. And when Thorin had returned for the evening, it had taken all his effort not to yell it at the unsuspecting dwarf. The secret of his identity was bubbling in his throat, trying to crawl its way out of Bilbo’s mouth. But he could not risk it; he had feigned tiredness that night, burning with guilt as Thorin shuffled away, spending his time alone on the couch - his current bed - instead of by Bilbo’s side.

Bilbo rationalized that the sooner he got out of here, the sooner he could send word to Thorin from a distance - let the dwarf know he was alive without jeopardizing his people. And thus he was driven to rehabilitate his leg. Thorin had advised Bilbo to work on stretching the muscles a while ago; at first, the slightest clench in his calf or twist of his hoof engulfed his entire leg in searing pain. But he gradually worked his way up until the dwarf was helping him bend his leg. Bilbo would blush profusely as Thorin’s large, warm hands nestled in his fur, but Thorin was surprisingly matter-of-fact about it, either ignoring or failing to notice his charge’s obvious embarrassment.

Finally Bilbo could bend his leg without assistance, and he knew the next natural step would be to walk. He waited until the dwarf was gone before shimmying himself to the edge of the huge bed and swinging his legs over. First he dropped his left leg to the floor, taking a moment to find his balance on the cool stone. Gingerly, hands gripping the mattress and arms quivering with the effort, he allowed his injured leg to drop as well. He eased his weight on bit by bit, biting his lip as he placed almost an equal distribution of weight. He groaned as his leg began to shake, arms screaming in protest as they still held the majority of the burden. Finally, with a defeated sigh, he pulled himself back on the bed.

He tried not to let it feel like a defeat - it was improvement, he reminded himself. And he tried it multiple times a day, until he was soon holding his entire weight evenly upon both legs. His first steps were shaky and unbalanced, and he had to use the bed to hold his weight when only his right leg remained on the floor.

Thorin knew none of this; he would return every night to help Bilbo flex and stretch his leg, but he had yet to give the hobbit orders to move forward. It was just another secret Bilbo was forced to add upon his crushingly guilty conscience.

Unfortunately, and yet perhaps fortunately, this was not a secret Bilbo was forced to hide for long. His first attempt across the room without the bed as his support was embarrassingly unsuccessful. He had made it about five steps before his injured leg buckled beneath his weight and Bilbo found himself sprawled out on the floor, gasping at the jolting pain in his head.  _ Stupid dwarves and their ridiculous stone!  _ he cursed internally as he clutched at his throbbing leg. He was just about to drag himself back to the bed to hoist himself up when the door opened.

Bilbo balked for a moment - he had long since overcome his fear of someone else entering the room and discovering him, yet lying on the floor, entirely exposed, reignited his terror. It was only Thorin; yet Bilbo found himself half-wishing it  _ had _ been another as the dwarf all but  _ ran _ towards him, majestic robes flapping impractically as he knelt at Bilbo’s side.

“Akhûnith, what happened?” Thorin demanded, grabbing the hobbit’s chin and searching his face before dropping his gaze to Bilbo’s leg, the wound still enclosed by Bilbo’s hands.

Bilbo removed his fingers, submitting himself to Thorin’s gentle examination. “You were trying to walk, weren’t you?” the dwarf asked gruffly. When Bilbo looked away, he snorted. Looking up, Bilbo was graced with the sight of a gentle smile. Pulling the hobbit to his feet, Thorin helped Bilbo walk back to the bed.

“You remind me of my sister-sons,” Thorin revealed, expression tender. Bilbo froze for a moment - in all their talks, Thorin seldom mentioned anyone from the Company, including their young companions! But he quickly recovered, climbing onto the thickly blanketed mattress with feigned nonchalance. “They nearly drove the healers mad with their refusal to stay in bed, threatening to aggravate their wounds as they snuck around.

“They’re fine now,” Thorin continued, as if sensing Bilbo’s worry. “Well, as fine as they can be - still menaces to my kingdom, of course.”

Bilbo snorted, hand smacking over his face at the noise. Yet Thorin only laughed, a rough, raspy sound. 

“I know I am seldom here,” Thorin said, growing serious once more. “But if you can wait for me, I will help you walk.”

Bilbo nodded mutely, settling into the furs as Thorin changed into a simple tunic and trousers before returning to the hobbit’s side and regaling him with stories of his nephews.

 

Having Thorin help Bilbo walk proved difficult. The dwarf’s arm would loop around Bilbo’s back, his large hand engulfing the left side of Bilbo’s ribcage. Bilbo swore he could feel the rough calluses through his borrowed tunic, and the heat of the touch would haunt him for hours afterward. The dwarf would help him stand when his leg buckled, and despite his shocking tenderness up to this point, he did not hesitate to push Bilbo through painful progression.

Thorin had also begun carving something out of a huge slab of wood - he soon presented Bilbo with a crutch. It was smooth and polished, with little engravings. Bilbo pointed to the unreadable Khuzdul, pinning Thorin with a curious look.

“Those are runes of protection,” Thorin revealed, a finger lifting to drag alongside the carved wood. It was hard to imagine such a large, rough hand taking enough care to carve such small, intricate details. “I also asked that Mahal watch over you, fill you with strength and keep you from falling.”

The dwarf visibly faltered as his finger reached the top of the wood. He looked away, cheeks warming to a rosy red. Bilbo made a small noise, confused and intrigued by the sudden shift. Grunting, he nudged the dwarf’s side with the crutch.

“I also added something a little more...personal.” Thorin refused to meet Bilbo’s eager gaze, rubbing at his rapidly growing beard. “It names you as a brave little warrior…” he confessed slowly, and Bilbo could not argue the  _ little _ part in the face of Thorin’s bashfulness. “As well as dwarf-friend.”

Bilbo mouth fell open, his tight throat emitting a small noise, a pathetic attempt at a thanks. Yet Thorin seemed bolstered by it, his hand coming to rest beside Bilbo’s, not quite touching, as he said, “I mean to say you are  _ my  _ friend, and I hope - though do not expect - you think kindly of me.”

Bilbo snorted at the dwarf’s ridiculousness, though he quickly smiled as Thorin’s expression fell.  _ Of course you are my friend,  _ he thought silently, squeezing Thorin’s hand and leaning forward, hoping the earnest happiness on his face expressed his feelings. His tail thumped happily against the mattress as Thorin smiled back, their hands still intertwined as the dwarf leaned forward. Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat at first, but his tail only wagged all the more furiously as Thorin rested his forehead against Bilbo’s.

“Bâhaê. My friend,” he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bâha = friend  
> -ê = my


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who follows me on tumblr will already know I was unable to post anything because I've been working a lot recently - I now, officially, have one full-time job, in addition to other responsibilities, etc, IRL. So I may end up posting every second Sunday - nothing official, but if a Sunday goes by without an update, feel free to check [my tumblr here](airebellah.tumblr.com) under #lost-and-fauned or #fic-update and see what's going on.  
> Quite short (not sure why ever chapter in this WIP is a struggle to get to 1k words - guess my muse just runs out quickly!)  
> Everyone send thanks over to tea-blitz because this wouldn't be here without her brainstorming and beta-ing!

Thorin picked at the leg of lamb on his plate; the late night dinner for the King consisted of a spread of delectable meats, fresh fruits and warm, baked bread. Bilbo devoured the latter two, huffing and rolling his eyes at the lack of vegetables. But he was soon distracted by Thorin's agitated state. The dwarf was rubbing his forehead and sighing heavily as he glared at the rapidly cooling food.

Bilbo made a small noise, nudging Thorin's plate. Often the dwarf became lost in his thoughts, already occupied with tomorrow's problems.

But tonight, it was not merely Thorin’s duties weighing down upon the king. He seemed troubled as he stared into the distance, unmoved by Bilbo’s gentle jostling. The hobbit sighed, shifting closer so he could elbow the thick-headed dwarf a little more forcefully.

Thorin blinked languidly, as if the simple motion was truly exhausting. “Sorry, my friend,” he murmured, voice thick with unnamed emotion as he gave a small twitch of his bearded lips, a gesture that did not reach his blank eyes.

Bilbo’s brows furrowed in concern, but he did not push the dwarf; Thorin was nothing if not stubborn, and he would only distance himself if pushed.

The hobbit’s patience was soon rewarded. As Thorin’s food grew cold and hard, his glass of wine emptied and his lips loosened.

“Erebor has been in my dreams, every single night, since I was 24 and living on the streets for the first time in my life. I always thought I would retake it with my grandfather, father, and brother by my side. Now I have it, and I -” Thorin looked away, shame hardening his gaze. “I insult their memory.”

Bilbo’s mouth opened immediately in protest, but thankfully the dwarf continued.

“I have been the leader of my people for almost a century, yet I have never struggled more with this role. I cannot stay here; I will not grow fat and old and listen to petty arguments and fill paperwork for the rest of my days!”

Thorin stood up so abruptly, his plate fell to the floor with a shattering crash. But he was deaf to the noise as he began pacing agitatedly, struggling for words in a way Bilbo had not seen before.

He realized it was because Thorin so rarely gave a voice to his inner struggles.

“Can I not once have a life of simplicity? I have everything I have ever wanted, yet it is my own heart that betrays me!

“After so long on the road, moving from place to place, toiling away in the cities of men - never did I think I would say this, and yet… I wish to travel. I wish to see Arda again, without the constant fear and worry of providing for my people, or the pressing need to retake my homeland from that serpent filth by Durin’s Day.”

The dwarf ran a hand through his greying hair, looking far more weary than his almost two-hundred years - something very strange for a hobbit to say. Thorin sat on the the edge of the bed beside Bilbo, tempting Bilbo’s fingers towards his long, curling locks.

With his back to his guest, Thorin dropped his head in his hands and murmured, “I am surrounded by friends and family, yet I have never been so alone.” There was a long pause in which Bilbo struggled to think of anything, really, when Thorin continued: “I am not so certain travelling will cure it. I wish to see Beorn’s homestead again, travel through the Misty Mountains, perhaps even visit that elf-infested valley -” Had the situation been any different, Bilbo would have chuckled at Thorin’s description of Rivendell.

“But truly, I know my heart will not settle until I see  _ him  _ safe in his Shire _ …  _ Yet the thought instills me with fear - a fear far greater than Smaug or Azog could ever create. I will be forced to see the life of which he was robbed - all for the sake of a petty, greedy king who failed to protect him and to appreciate his value and worth. In my dreams I make it all that way, I knock on his little green door, and… someone else opens the door and tells me - Bilbo Baggins is dead.”

Thorin stumbled over the name; the emotions brought forth with the meager syllables were troubling to the mute hobbit. He made a small noise, leaning forward to rub circles on Thorin’s back. The dwarf stiffened at first, but soon relaxed into the touch. He even let the hobbit comb through his hair with his fingers, something Bilbo was sure held great significance in dwarven culture.

“No matter my duties here, I must know,” Thorin resolved after a long, troubled silence. “If he did not - “ the dwarf’s voice broke slightly before he cleared his throat, shoulders straightening as he pulled out of Bilbo’s reach. “I will ensure he has a proper burial, in his homeland. I owe him that, and much more.”

Bilbo watched helplessly as the dwarf stormed out of the chambers, slamming the door shut behind him.  His stomach twisted with guilt, yet his heart hardened with resolve. He would have to sneak out of Erebor once more and send word of his well-being before Thorin could ever leave the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going with book canon here - Smaug came in TA 2770, when Thorin was 24. Thorin became King-in-Exile in TA 2850 after Thráin went missing (91 years). The movie portrays these latter two events as both happening during the Battle of Azanulbizar, TA 2799, which would make Thorin king for 142 years.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I haven't written anything since July!!!!!! Almost 2k words will make up for it, maybe?? Thanks everyone for the patience, I hope I haven't lost too many readers in the wait! :0
> 
> I'm hoping to wrap this up with one or more chapters, the end of December (when I'm off from uni and work) at the latest!

The mountain was colder than Bilbo remembered. Perhaps it was the distinct lack of welcome as he slunk down the corridor. The empty halls echoed with the faint  _ clip-clip-clop _ of his hooves, making Bilbo wince as he looked around every few seconds.

Thorin would be gone late into the night; his meetings with Balin had been growing longer and longer, until Bilbo was not even sure the dwarf had been returning to his chambers at all.

The hobbit felt sick with guilt and fear as he escaped into the night - fear at being caught, and guilt…

He was betraying his closest friend.

Again.

Bilbo swallowed thickly, pushing the thought away as he forced himself onwards. It would be better in the end, he told himself. Thorin and he would make amends through letters sent back and forth, and while they would never see each other again, at least Thorin could spend his days ruling without the adding weight of Bilbo’s unknown fate.

The Royal wing was blessedly empty as Bilbo made his way through. He kept his ring in his pocket, easily accessed but not yet on; dwarves must have bloody good eyesight, because they refused to have any reasonable lighting! The walls were sparsely decorated with small torches, and the hobbit struggled to see on his own - much less with the ring on, in a world of grey and black.

Had he not been sneaking out of the mountain, Bilbo would have loved to take his time, examine the beautiful tapestries and architecture adorning the Royal wing. He had not seen it after the Company’s retaking of the mountain - Thorin had been so focused on the gold, the dwarves barely slept, instead put to work searching through the treasure. And Bilbo… he had barely been given leave to move from the King’s side. Sometimes Thorin would talk to him, but it was often indecipherable mutterings accompanied by wary side-glances.

“Hey!” came a voice, echoing in the long hallway.

Bilbo’s heart stopped in his chest for a bare moment before he was off, running wildly down the curving corridor, refusing to look back as he heard heavy footsteps running after him. He did not slow down, even as he slipped his ring onto his finger and the dimly lit halls greyed with shadows.

“Durin’s beard!” the dwarf cursed. “Where’d he go?”

Bilbo skidded to a stop as he heard someone approaching in front of him.  _ Oh, Eru,  _ his panicked mind was barely able to think as he pushed himself against the wall. The icy stone was a jolt to his hammering senses.  _ They can’t see you, they can’t see you, they can’t  _ -

“Kili!”

Bilbo’s knees felt weak. It was Thorin, he was here, it was too late, he would find out and - and -

“Uncle!” Kili shouted, and Bilbo’s horrified train of thought was quickly replaced with a painful mixture of horror and excitement at realizing who his pursuer was. Kili looked somehow aged, features pulled into a serious frown. “I saw someone sneaking around by your chambers!”

“Who?” the King asked, taking a step towards his young nephew.

“I don’t know, but they were really short and they ran off the moment I saw them and then they disappeared but I don’t know how because you were right here and -” Kili rattled on, practically vibrating with exhilaration.

Thorin’s confused frown slowly smoothed into a blank mask. Watching the realization dawn on the dwarf’s face caused Bilbo’s chest to clench painfully.

“It is no one,” Thorin said evenly.

“But I swear I saw someone! Uncle, we have to -”

“Kili! Listen to me: you probably saw...” Thorin trailed off, rubbing his bearded cheeks. His contemplation was likely taken for sheepishness. “My tailor,” he recovered quite belatedly. “There is no need to chase him down.”

“Your tailor?” Kili repeated incredulously. “What is he doing here so late?”

“Don’t question me,” Thorin growled immediately.

There was a moment of silence, then - “ _ Ewwww _ , Uncle!”

“What?” Thorin asked, his innocent confusion  inappropriately endearing to the watching hobbit.

“I don’t want to know!” Kili whined. “Gross!”

Thorin groaned, head dropping into his palm for a moment before he gave his nephew a light cuff on the head. In spite of the complete  inappropriateness , Bilbo had to clasp a hand over his mouth to smother his laughter.

“Then go back to your chambers! Wait, Kili, what were you doing out here in the first place?”

Kili froze, eyes wide and mouth agape. He stammered for a moment before pushing past his uncle. “Goodnight!” Kili called as he raced away

Thorin sighed dramatically, but Bilbo’s humour disappeared as the dwarf’s gaze cast around the hall, searching. The hobbit’s left hand twisted the ring around nervously, as though he were tempted to pull it off.

“I don’t know how you’re doing this,” the dwarf began, adding a terse, “Though I suppose that’s the point.” His bright blue eyes narrow ed as he inspected the stone walls.

Shoulders slumping, he  shook his head. “I was going to let you go after you healed,” he revealed softly. “Those are not the right words; I am not keeping you, and you are not mine to let go. But I would have helped you find your way back home, made sure you got there safely.”

Thorin looked up suddenly, eyes landing dangerously close to hidden Bilbo’s form. “I hope we part in friendship, and that you may know I will always come to your aid.”

Thorin placed a hand over his heart, bowing his head as motioned his hand towards the hobbit. “Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal.”

Bilbo’s breath stuttered in his throat, forcing him to bite his lip from saying anything. The words were unknown to him, but the emotion in Thorin’s low, murmured voice was heart-wrenching.

“Let me walk you outside,” Thorin said. “I know these halls quite well - and I also happen to command the guard.” The dwarf’s lip twitched sardonically, the barest hint of a smile not reaching his eyes.

 

Despite Thorin’s gentle encouragements, Bilbo refused to take off his ring. He held onto Thorin’s furred sleeve in order to guide himself around the shadowy turns. He told himself it was necessary to keep the ring on - anyone could happen upon him… But he knew a part of it was so he did not have to face the King; cowardly as it was, he felt protected from his guilt with the little trinket on. 

The hobbit wanted to slow down the closer they got to the front, but Thorin set an even pace. “Wait here,” Thorin murmured as the gate came in view, gently nudging Bilbo into the shadowy corner. The dwarf paused for a moment, staring in Bilbo’s direction. But he said nothing before walking away, heavy boots thumping on the stone floor.

“Who goes - Your Highness!” came a surprised voice.

“Peace,” then monarch intoned. The coldness was startling; Bilbo had grown too used to the King’s warm tones and soft smiles. I am walking to  the throne room. Follow me.”

The guard interrupted, “But your Majesty, the front -”

“We will not be long,” Thorin cut in. “Surely no one will try to sneak inside in the next two minutes, hmm?”

Without another word, the dwarf marched away, leaving the two guards with no choice but to follow. Bilbo slipped on his ring, waiting a prolonged moment before slipping out of Erebor once more, feeling as much a traitor as the first time.

 

Bilbo knew he would not make it far without Sting, so he immediately made his way back to the forest. His leg slowed him down; he was much better, and could walk unaided, but with such a long journey ahead - all alone - he had to take it easy. After finding the sword, thankfully untouched, he spent the night curled up against a rather comfortable root. Closing his eyes, he could almost believe it was the Shire. Almost.

He spent two days there, sneaking into Dale to pilfer food (he would pay it back, he promised himself) and forming a plan. He did not know the way well, after all, and he’d have to go all the way around Mirkwood.

It was the morn he was to depart that he heard a rustle from afar. Bilbo leapt up, pressing himself against a tree as he slipped on his ring. Heart in his throat, Bilbo willed his breath to still as stomping footsteps approached. Only for… Thorin to appear out of the trees.

Bilbo slowly overcome his initial shock, as Thorin muttered a terse, “He was here.” The dwarf began looking around, as if searching for clues.

“Thorin?”

The name slipped from his lips before Bilbo had a chance to think. Thorin whipped around, eyes widening as he froze.

“Bilbo?” he whispered, voice cracking over the hobbit’s name.

Bilbo looked down, fingers rubbing against the ring. Trying to swallow the tightness growing in his throat, he pulled off the trinket and stepped forward.

The King’s gaze swept over him, taking in the curved horns and furry, oddly-shaped legs he had grown used to. But not as a part of Bilbo, the hobbit he had grown to know over the journey - as a separate being, painfully reminiscent of his lost companion, but not the same.

The dwarf’s expression was impossible to read. Bilbo could not discern anger, or confusion, or any kind of emotion from his tight lips and drawn in brows.  _ Does he even understand? _ Bilbo began to wonder.

“Again,” Thorin ordered suddenly, voice low and rough. “Say - my name.”

Bilbo’s eyes squeezed shut. “Thorin.” He took in a short, stuttered breath, whispering,  “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Mahal admure,” Thorin murmured, the foreign words thick and rough. His hand came up, fingers resting against his forehead to block his expression. “I thought…” he began after a long, painful moment. “I thought it couldn’t possibly be true. I thought myself mad - not  from gold, not this time, but from thinking of  _ you.  _ Worrying.  _ Regretting _ \- so much, Bilbo. Mahal forgive me. I would take back my words and deeds at the gate, and -”

“You...” Bilbo interrupted, mind struggling to take everything in. “You’re not...angry with me?”

“Bilbo, please -” Thorin stepped forward, freezing as Bilbo could not help but tense up. “I do not deserve your forgiveness, but I am too weak not to seek it. Let me escort you to the Shire. I will leave you alone after that, but allow me to ensure your safe return. That is all I ask.”

Bilbo frowned, brain growing muddled with tormenting emotions. “I lied,” he finally blurted. “Aren’t you - don’t you…”

“No!” Thorin breathed, as if a great confession were released with the single syllable. “Never. I understand. You had every right to -”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, hand rubbing his face wearily. He could not take another word. His head felt heavy, a pounding growing behind his eyes. “Come with me,” he agreed, instead of so many things he wanted to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal - May we meet again with the grace of Mahal. Not sure where this came from!  
> Admur - have mercy on. E - me. I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a suffix or not, but the Dwarrow Scholar’s dictionary did not specify, so I am using it as such. Thus: Mahal, have mercy on me.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What??? An update???  
> I know. Sorry to everyone for the long wait, but thank you for sticking with me! I think this could resolve in another 2-3 chapters, but I'm really torn for the ending at the moment so it's hard to say. Thanks to everyone for your encouragement commenting, and I believe I had one or two people send me asks on tumblr about this, I really appreciate that!  
> This fic gives me massive writer's block, but I am motivated to finish it :) (I have a ME AU I am chomping at the bit to start posting, but I cannot until this is finished!)  
> To my fellow hosers (depending on province), happy long weekend!
> 
> THANKS to my beta [tea-blitz](http://tea-blitz.tumblr.com) for not only looking over my work before I post, but for all her encouragement and advice!

Things were strange at first - Thorin treated Bilbo more like glass than a travelling companion, and Bilbo still got far too tongue-tied to hold a full conversation. It was hard to work on his language capability, of course, given Thorin’s terseness.

Bilbo was desperate to hear of Erebor - how could Thorin afford to leave so suddenly? But, their relationship being so tentative as it was, he could not bring himself to ask. Many times Thorin’s own mouth opened, only to clamp shut. Bilbo knew Thorin would speak in his own time.

Bilbo had to wonder, later, if the Valar had been merely tired of watching the Hobbit and Dwarf dance around each other. (Bilbo knew he certainly was, yet he could not bring himself to initiate anything - even platonically.) It just so happened that they suffered night after night after night of heavy rain. Similar to the start of the quest, only now they had no ponies to ride during the day and no thick canopy of trees to block some of the downpour.

Thorin, Yavanna bless him, had brought with him extra clothes for Bilbo. The overcoats fell halfway down his furry legs, and were far thicker and more durable than his, well,  _ fashion-conscious _ clothes from the Shire.

But without any alleviation from the rain, even the Dwarvish-made clothes were failing to warm him. At night he curled up into a tight ball, a polite few feet away from his companion, shivering into unconsciousness. It was not long before Bilbo reached his breaking point - days of trekking through muddy, slippery grass and nights of freezing sleeplessness forcing him to overcome his timidity. The darkness of night offered Bilbo a sense of anonymity, and with it freedom to act upon impulses he otherwise carefully smothered. Leaping up from his pile of sodden clothes, he crossed the threshold of bare land stretched between him and Thorin, plopping down beside the King.

“Thorin?” he whispered, shaking the dwarf’s form gently. His hands were grabbed instantly, body yanked closer.

“Bilbo!” Thorin’s eyes were eerily bright as he demanded, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Bilbo soothed immediately, with a pang of guilt as he thought of the King’s troubled sleep - and more often, sleepless nights - back in Erebor. “Can I… sleep?” he asked, growing skittish once more.

Immediately the dwarf was tugging him down, lifting his coat to pull Bilbo flush against his warm body. The sudden heat was startling against his numb skin, and while it had been his idea, he found his muscles clenching against his will. Being so close to Thorin - and Thorin knowing who he  _ was… _

“Shh, akhûnith,” the dwarf soothed, rubbing a large hand up and down Bilbo’s back. He tried not to think of how it spanned almost across his entire back, how small he was in the dwarf’s hands; he already knew how easily Thorin could overpower him, not only his body but his  _ heart _ , leave him - 

“Shh, shh,” Thorin murmured again, arms wrapping around Bilbo’s small body, not crushing him, but gently enclosing him. “Kurdel, please, forgive me.”

The words were there, trapped in his throat. Rationally, he knew - he knew Thorin had been sick, not in his right mind; and more importantly, that he was once more in a healthy state of mind. He knew Thorin had not wanted to kill him - for how easily the King could have crushed his windpipe, or thrown him over the edge. He had watched Thorin, consumed by guilt and worry, knew that Erebor - all the dwarf had ever dreamed of - was now tainted for him.

But if Bilbo relinquished his fear, if he said those  _ words  _ \-  _ I forgive you, of course I do, Thorin, never doubt that  _ \- he would not be able to  _ stop. _ He wanted everything from the dwarf. He wanted all that they had ignored for so long (at least he hoped they had, that it was not all one-sided). He wouldn’t be able to handle it, when Thorin inevitably returned home. For whatever arrangement the King had now, it would only be temporary.

He was vaguely aware of Thorin stroking his hair, fingers carefully avoiding curved horns. His fingers, mobile once more, were clutched desperately in Thorin’s tunic. His face, damp, pressed into Thorin’s throat, a heavy pulse beating against him comfortingly. Hooves pressed into the dwarf’s knees. And the King held him, through all his uncertainty and turmoil. Thorin’s chest was rumbling, and a low tune gradually filled Bilbo’s ears. He could not help but smile, insides warming as his mind was filled with memories of a cozy Bag End filled with strange dwarves who would soon become dear friends.

Bilbo was aware of nothing but Thorin’s deep humming filling him as he drifted off to sleep.

 

The world did not magically change come morning. The rain poured down as hard as ever, and while Bilbo was thankfully warmer, his clothes were still disgustingly damp. But something did seem to have changed between  _ them, _ a subtle shift, an unspoken understanding.

Though the cold bolstered them into shaking their aching joints and resuming their journey once more, Bilbo thought that, had it been sunny and clear, he would have much rather enjoyed taking some time, basking in Thorin’s warm embrace. And perhaps, just maybe, by the way Thorin smiled at him, gaze hopelessly gentle, and ran a careful hand through Bilbo’s sleep-tousled curls, that desire was returned.

Bilbo spent the remaining rainy nights unashamedly cuddled next to his companion. And when the skies finally cleared, and they built their first fire in days (unfortunately small, given the lack of dry wood), the hobbit and dwarf stretched out along the grass; as they gazed up at the stars, silent and peaceful, their hands found one another, fingers twining and palms settling together.

They needed not words to say they would spend that night, and many nights thereafter, in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short, but all that fluff has probably left you with a belly ache ;)
> 
> Akhûnith - little one  
> Kurdel - heart of (all) hearts
> 
> Find me on [on tumblr](http://airebellah.tumblr.com)! Updates are now (unfortunately) periodic.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally completed this fic, yay!!!!! This final chapter is much longer than the rest, so hopefully you guys enjoy it :)  
> Thanks to everyone who has commented and hung around as I've struggled to put this craziness together!
> 
> **IMPORTANT** I wanted to keep the rating on this fic, so there is an accompanying smut scene that is posted separately here called [Like Silk Through His Fingers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10763157). Go check it out if you're interested ;) But there's absolutely nothing you'll be missing if that's not your thing.
> 
> Eternal thanks to my beta, supporter, fellow trash [tea-blitz](https://tea-blitz.tumblr.com) for getting me through this story!! [Check out her AO3 here :)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloomier/pseuds/Gloomier)
> 
> Please let me know what you think, guys!

Together Thorin and Bilbo made their way across Middle Earth, skirting Mirkwood, much to the dwarf’s palpable relief. Sticking to less worn paths, they succeeded in avoiding any other travellers. Save for Beorn, whose home they stayed at a single night. Bilbo held no fear of the great bear-man, knowing Beorn’s deep love for furry creatures.

To Thorin’s initial chagrin, Beorn delighted in Bilbo’s new form. “You are no little bunny after all!” he chuckled. “Perhaps a little goat.”

“Goat?” Bilbo exclaimed as Thorin, Bilbo’s honourable defender no longer, snorted into his tankard of sweet honey-mead.

But as the night darkened, their conversation grew more solemn. “I don’t know how we’ll make it all the way to the Shire,” Bilbo confessed wearily.

“I swear on my honour, Bilbo…” Thorin trailed off, nails biting into his legs as he averted his gaze in shame.

Bilbo reached out, hand closing Thorin’s tense fingers into a fist. “I know,” he murmured, giving the dwarf a warm, genuine smile.

“It is the men and orcs you must avoid,” Beorn advised sagely.

“What do you think of the elves, Master Beorn?” Bilbo asked. “The friendlier elves to the West. In the glade of Imladris, if you are familiar.” He could feel Thorin’s hand clench once more for an entirely different reason.

“They do not concern themselves with the affairs of any outside their kind,” Beorn stated.

Thorin snorted smugly, and Bilbo wondered if he did not recall Beorn accusing dwarves of something similar not so long ago.

“Lord Elrond extended a personal invitation for me to stay at Rivendell,” Bilbo revealed. “I believe he could be trusted. Gandalf -”

“Gandalf!” snarled Thorin. “You will rely on the wizard that forsook my people to advance his own agenda and left you on the battlefield?”

Bilbo sighed. This was not their first debate regarding the missing wizard. “Not entirely, no,” Bilbo relented. “But I trust Lord Elrond to keep my form secret; I can see no gain if he were to reveal my true nature.”

“I agree with little goat,” Beorn announced, ignoring Bilbo’s indignant squawk. “Many with great power have fallen to the darkness through the ages. I have heard no such thing of this one.”

Bilbo turned to Thorin, who dipped his chin in assent. “Time and again you have kept my path straight when I have tried to stray,” he said. “I have learned not fight you, lukhudel.”

That night, safe and warm in Beorn’s spacious home, there really was no excuse for hobbit and dwarf to sleep alongside one another. And it was then that Bilbo decided he no longer needed an excuse to hold him back. He slipped into Thorin’s room, and into his bed, and into his awaiting arms.

He wondered if home was not a place after all, but a feeling.

 

“I look ridiculous!” Bilbo grumbled as he stared down at himself.

“I recall you once spending near a fortnight in a snot-covered overcoat,” Thorin charmingly reminded him.

“Being chased by wargs is hardly conducive to proper hygiene,” Bilbo shot back.

“Mizim, put aside your propriety for one night. After all, they are merely elves.”

And so Bilbo and Thorin entered the gates of Rivendell, the hobbit wearing heavy pants that dragged along the ground and a tunic-turned-headscarf.

They were met at the gates by an elf Bilbo recognized as Lindir. “Mae govannen!” Bilbo greeted with a grin and a bow. Lindir’s answering smile morphed into a rather pained look at Thorin’s unimpressed glare.

“His Lordship has been expecting you,” the elf announced, turning immediately to lead them inside.

The salutation had Thorin snarling and reaching for Orcrist. Bilbo was forced to reach out and physically remove the dwarf’s thick fingers from the pummel as he gave Lindir a wide, forced smile.

All in all, it was much more peaceful than Bilbo thought he could have hoped for.

Thorin kept Bilbo’s hand on his arm as they walked the long, empty halls, as though needing the physical reassurance that Bilbo was  _ there _ and  _ safe _ and  _ protected. _ And as Bilbo began asking Lindir general questions about himself and Rivendell, more an exercise in his Sindarin than anything else, Thorin may have gripped Bilbo’s hand a little firmly.

“Mae govannen!” Bilbo greeted again as they were led into Elrond’s private chamber. This time Thorin did bow his head in respect; at least he knew at whom to aim his diplomacy.

“Welcome once again to Rivendell,” Elrond hailed. “Master Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, and Your Majesty, Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor.”

“Lord Elrond, I come seeking your help,” Bilbo entreated.

“Your concealment spell is no longer cast,” Elrond replied immediately.

“Yes!” cried Bilbo. “Wait - you know?”

“I know many things,” the elf replied with a small smile. “Even such secrets the races think they hide amongst their own.”

Bilbo was quite sure he did not imagine the pointed look Elrond sent Thorin’s way. Thorin frowned, arms crossing over his chest.

“Do you know what caused it?” Elrond asked.

“I suffered a head injury in battle,” Bilbo replied tightly. His head throbbed at the mere memory.

Elrond nodded. “Have you had any other lingering effects?”

“He was examined by my best healer,” Thorin interjected hotly.

“Of course, King Thorin,” Elrond replied evenly. “I am sure the spell simply needs to be recast.”

“Really?” Bilbo asked, grasping Thorin’s sleeve in his excitement. “That’s it?”

“I am aware of Tom Bombadil’s agreement to conceal the hobbits’ forms,” Elrond explained. “I am unaware, however, of the incantation.” Before Bilbo had a chance to truly lose hope, the elf added, “It will be in my archives; it is merely a matter of searching. Please, avail yourselves of our hospitality. I will retrieve you when I am ready.”

 

Bilbo spent the next few days luxuriating in Rivendell’s beautiful gardens and endless library. Thorin begrudgingly followed, reluctant to leave Bilbo alone until the magic could be fixed. But even he became absorbed in the books, finding many ancient texts on his own people as well as some more contemporary works. He took a particular pleasure in informing Bilbo - rather loudly - when the elves got things wrong. Apparently it was quite often.

But despite Thorin's increased grumpiness around their hosts, he clearly revelled in Bilbo's happiness. He had even allowed Bilbo to braid a crown of flowers into his hair. On more than one occasion. 

Bilbo currently sat on the edge of their bed, admiring a bouquet he had plucked that afternoon. He had tried explaining the meanings of different flowers to Thorin, who claimed it would be easier to teach a blind warrior Iglishmêk. The memory had Bilbo chuckling as Thorin returned from the water closet and climbed into bed.

He smiled warmly at Bilbo's laugh. “You have been much happier,” he noted.

“It's hard not to be,” quipped Bilbo.

“Would you always be so happy here?”

Bilbo glanced over at the dwarf, troubled by his cool tone. Thorin often vacillated between angry and detached with most others, but that facade had fallen a long time ago for Bilbo.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked. 

“Elrond offered you a place here,” Thorin explained, apparently fascinated by the embroidered quilt he pulled over his legs.

“And I may take him up on his offer -” Bilbo did not miss the hunching of Thorin's shoulders “- Every once in awhile, when I feel like a vacation.”

Thorin’s head whipped up. “You are not staying?” he asked.

“Goodness, no!” exclaimed Bilbo. “Why would you even - you silly dwarf! Don't forget you promised to take me all the way to the Shire… I thought we may have that much time, at least,” he mumbled, growing unsure of himself.

“At least?” echoed Thorin.

“Well, I know you must return to Erebor. I won't keep you from your people of course, and I-”

“Bilbo,” Thorin interrupted.

“No, just let me finish,” Bilbo demanded. They had not mentioned Erebor, or Thorin's awaiting kingship, along their travels. He had simply wanted to enjoy their limited time together without worrying about the future. Now, he had delayed this far too long. “Whatever obligation you feel towards me - Thorin, I am eternally grateful for your help; I could not have made it this far without you. But I won’t hold you to some non-existent oath! Erebor needs a king, and -”

“Erebor has a king,” Thorin said.

“Yes,” Bilbo drawled with a dramatic eye-roll. “And that oaf is sitting in Rivendell with a silly hobbit instead of being with his people!”

Thorin frowned, eyes narrowing as he looked around the room. “Are you well, Bilbo? Do you see Fíli here?”

“F-” Bilbo broke off with an exasperated groan. “Thorin, is this your attempt at humour? Because it’s ridiculous! I’m trying to have a serious conversation, and you’re just…”

Thorin lurched forward, gently clasping Bilbo’s exasperatedly waving forearms. “I am being serious, mizimelûh. I abdicated the throne.”

“You - what’re you - how could you -” Bilbo could not be sure how long he would have sputtered before forming a coherent sentence; Thorin, with a soft smile, reached up and cupped the hobbit’s cheek, effectively breaking the spell. “Thorin, how could you  _ do _ such a thing? Your throne! I mean, you’ve waited longer than I’ve been  _ alive _ to get Erebor back!”

“Aye,” Thorin agreed solemnly. “But not for her splendor, nor her throne. Only for my people. If I have accomplished one thing in my lifetime, it is that.”

Bilbo chewed his lip as he considered the news. “Won’t you miss your home?” he asked.

“Aye, and I will often visit. But there are ghosts in those halls.” Thorin slowly shook his head. “I can lead my people into greatness no longer.”

“What’re you going to do now?”

“I will escort you home. And I…” Thorin trailed off. His hand fell from Bilbo’s cheek, fisting in the blanket between them. His brows were pulled heavy over his eyes, jaw twitching as his lips pursed. It was the most indecisive Bilbo had ever seen the great dwarf.

“I would ask to stay,” he admitted slowly, as if practicing an unfamiliar phrase. “If you will have me.”

With a joyful laugh, Bilbo lunged forward, throwing his arms around the brooding, anxious dwarf. “For as long as the Shire can contain you!” he murmured into Thorin’s shoulder. 

Bilbo’s ear twitched as Thorin sighed a deep, slow breath. “I should think that would not be a problem,” the dwarf replied, lips brushing against Bilbo’s curls.

“Will Fíli be all right?” Bilbo asked, reluctantly pulling out of Thorin’s arms. “He’s a good lad, but he’s so young!”

“He may be king, but he is not alone,” Thorin assured. “Balin, and soon my sister Dís, will guide his way.”

Bilbo licked his lips, nodding in satisfaction at the answer. As far as he had gleaned from the others on the quest, Thorin had been much younger when he was forced into leadership - and in incredibly dire circumstances. Fíli had grown considerably in the past year; he would make a fine king.

Thorin’s arms remained around his back, easily encompassing his rib cage. Hesitantly, Bilbo lifted his gaze, suddenly very aware of the dwarf’s warmth enclosing him. Thorin’s fingers trailed along Bilbo’s spine before his palm cupped the back of Bilbo’s head. Leaning down, his nose brushed against Bilbo’s, his hot breath whispering over his skin.

Thorin’s grip was loose, his fingers barely twitching against Bilbo’s hair as he nudged his chin forward, pressing his lips to Bilbo’s. Pulling away after a bare moment, Thorin’s hand brushed through Bilbo’s curls, fingers tracing along a furred ear.

Smiling through a shudder at the sensation, Bilbo pulled Thorin closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

 

It was the next morning that Bilbo was summoned once more. He could have trotted down the hall in joy, were it not for the baggy clothes concealing his identity from the rest of the elves. Most likely needlessly, but it was a level of security he and Thorin could actually agree upon.

They arrived not at Elrond’s chambers, as Bilbo had expected, but a vacant room with a large, pristinely white bed. The elf-Lord arrived a moment later, shutting the door before announcing, “I am prepared to re-cast your concealment spell, Master Baggins.”

“Alright!” Bilbo chirped. “And what happens?”

“You will lie on the bed,” Elrond explained. “Your Majesty, I will have to ask you to leave.”

“I am not going anywhere without Bilbo,” Thorin vowed.

“Nor will you have to,” Elrond replied calmly. “You may wait outside the door, but the spell requires utmost concentration. I cannot have distractions.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmured, grabbing the dwarf’s hands in his own. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you soon.”

Thorin bowed his head, forehead nudging against Bilbo’s. “Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu,” he murmured.

As Thorin left, Bilbo climbed onto the bed, proudly declining Elrond’s offer of help as his hooved legs flailed in the air. Rolling onto his back with an accomplished sigh, he stared up at the faintly smirking elf. “Will it hurt?” he asked.

“You will feel warmth, and nothing else,” Elrond said.

His relief giving way to excitement, he urged, “What now?”

“Now, you will close your eyes. When you awake, you will once again be in the form most of Arda knows as a hobbit.”

Elrond’s hands lifted to hover over Bilbo’s face. Closing his eyes, he warned, “I’m not sleepy.” But even as he said it, his skin became suffused with a pleasant glow, his limbs grew relaxed and unmovable, and his mind began to drift.   
“Told you I wasn’t sleepy,” Bilbo mumbled as he awoke and rolled onto his side. The words came out in a garbled mess, and he coughed into his hand to clear his tight throat.

There was a rich, baritone chuckle. Definitely not Elrond’s, he thought to himself. “You are awake.” A large hand caressed Bilbo’s cheek, finally prompting the hobbit’s eyes to flutter open.

“Thorin?” he asked drowsily. The name came out rather creaky and butchered, but he hoped it was recognizable nonetheless.

“The spell has worked,” Thorin said with a small smile. “See for yourself.”

He held up a silver-trimmed looking glass. At first all Bilbo saw were his hair and face, mostly unchanged. But as he tilted his head to the side, he smiled at a fur-less, leaf-shaped ear poking out of his curls. Throwing off his sheet, he cried in relief to see two legs, the only hair running down his shins and resting atop his large feet.

“Do you feel well?” Thorin asked.

Bilbo threw his head back in merriment. Leaning forward, he took Thorin’s hands in his own. “I can go home,” he said slowly, lips and tongue moving in exaggeration as he focused on the words. Squeezing their joined hands, he amended, “ _ We _ can go home.”

Bilbo’s walk back to their temporary rooms was embarrassingly silly, as he re-learned how to bend his knees. Though usually a race known for their silence, now Bilbo’s slapping feet echoed against the floor. Thorin’s teasing was rather merciless, remarking he was sooner walking normally after Azog’s sword pierced through his foot. But his ribbing had one positive effect: Bilbo was  _ determined _ to make a witty comeback, and his burning tenacity had him practicing his speech endlessly.

It was a transformation much smoother than the last; after all, this was the form he had spent his life in. It was not hard to adapt to it once more.

 

Bilbo was stopped with one foot on the top stone step, arm outstretched toward his door. “Thorin,  _ really?”  _ he grumbled. “I was just about to open the door!”

Thorin climbed up the steps, towering over his hobbit once more. “I love you in any form,” he declared. “And I am blessed to join your life in Bag End.”

Even as he rolled his eyes, he couldn’t stop from smiling at his soppy dwarf. “How many times have you said that now?” he asked.

“Not enough,” Thorin insisted.

Reaching up on his toes, Bilbo pecked the tip of Thorin’s nose. “Come on, you sap. Let’s get inside.”

Together, hand in hand, they entered their new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lukhudel - Light of (all) lights  
> Mizim - jewel  
> Mae govannen - well met (Sindarin)  
> Mizimelûh - my jewel of (all) jewels  
> May Mahal’s hammer shield you - Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu
> 
> Now that this is finally completed, I'll soon starting posting a sugar!daddy Bilbo Middle Earth (pre-Smaug/no quest) AU with young blacksmith!Thorin!! It's been sitting on my computer for months...


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